


The Black Dog of Baker St.

by MortuaryBee



Series: Hemostasis [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, POV Second Person, Sherlock's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MortuaryBee/pseuds/MortuaryBee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the longest it's lasted since John has known him. He vaguely ponders the possibility of being left for good.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Black Dog of Baker St.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock's POV of one of his infamous black moods.
> 
> John's POV is The Case of the Great Annoyance

Days turn to weeks and restlessness to lethargy. There’s no telling how long this will last and there’s no point in predictions; you’ll have to live through it either way.

He makes you tea. You ignore it as it gets cold.

He makes you more. You watch it grow colder.

He pretends to give up but you aren’t surprised when a plate of fresh pastries appears. He’s called in reinforcements. You turn over. He becomes frustrated. You don’t care. 

You want to be alone and so encourage his frustration by telling him a series of heartfelt confessions, some entirely false, some partly genuine, in a foreign language you know he will not understand. He sighs, rubs his brow and tries again, this time with words. It’s worse than the pastries, but slightly more entertaining. You remain silent, but do not hide your disinterest. To drive your point home you give him something that could, at one point in its life, have resembled a smile. You wait for muttered insults and pleas for normalcy and are not disappointed as he turns away. He gives up, finally, and returns upstairs. You take a bite of his favorite pastry purely so he cannot.

You find some small amount of peace in fitting motions and actions to the various bumps and bangs that make up his morning routine. You have not moved, nor have you slept. He does not acknowledge you on his way out and, on some level, you are grateful.

You are never entirely sure if it is dread, self-pity, or shame, but the void inside of you pushes down on your intestines in a way that has nothing do with the fact that you haven’t eaten in days. You feel empty and yet that lifeless hole weighs more than you have the ability to properly express. Pining you to the couch you cannot move. Your eyelids are too heavy to close so you stare lifelessly at a coffee table strewn with the remnants of activity, vibrancy, and sense of purpose that was once your life. You reach out to it with the same desperate sense of need as you reach out to the violin, but still your body does nothing. 

Your finger twitches beside you. This is somewhat reassuring because it means the electrical impulses in your brain are successfully reaching the corresponding muscles even if you’re not entirely in control of them. It is somewhat disappointing as it is confirmation that yes, this is your current existence. Your nerves itch with stagnation and you continue to analyze the ceiling texture for the seventeenth time in the past hour. You notice more minute cracks or crevices each time. You’re too tired to properly reprimand yourself for not instantly cataloging them at a glance so instead you just sigh outwardly and let your head drop to the side.

You remember that CO2 generally releases itself from your body through exhalation. In some cases there is too much carbon dioxide left in the blood causing Hypercapnia. Hypo-ventilation, lung disease, or diminished consciousness are the most likely culprits and although unusual can be forced. It is virtually undetectable post-mortem and a fairly effective method to--Frustrated, you tear yourself away from this and other tangential thoughts most of which you have already deleted or filed away. You try instead to focus on the blood rushing through your ears. The single ringing tone is somewhat cathartic compared to the rushing noise of your thoughts, so, assuming it is at all possible, you stay in this state as long as you are able to keep yourself at bay.

You don't care how long he’s been back. You hadn’t noticed him sit down. You don't acknowledge his presence in hopes for his swift departure. Time slows but your perceptions do not change. You have been here for exactly seven hours, thirty four minutes, 16 seconds and counting since he left for work. Thinking back, you may have lost some small unimportant fragments. This bothers you even though you know it shouldn’t. You file it away to be picked and prodded at in a more active moment. He’s yelling at you about something. You wonder if it makes him feel any better. You don’t care if it does.

Does he want a response? Surely he can’t expect one. He’s been through this enough already.

The door slams shut. You would roll your eyes at the empty predictability of his reactions, but it’s less enticing without an audience. You close them instead, revel in the loss of sight, and somewhat impatiently wait for change.


End file.
